July 17
by Bellsie805
Summary: Four women, four locations, four stories, one night...the women of House. Bonus Chapter: The Boys of House attempt to play poker.
1. Lisa Cuddy's Sleepless Evening

**Author's Note: **I love Cuddy's character. I love doing POV's for her character. She's much more fun than Cameron. This is actually a collection of vignettes that was inspired by the challenge over at the House100 LiveJournal community entitled: The Women of "House." I decided to expand on that and write a piece for each woman of the show starting with Cuddy. Four women, four different places, one night, no lingering attachments, and no men? Yeah, interesting. Thanks to Marti for the beta!

_Princess cards she sends me with her regards _

_Barroom eyes shine vacancy, to see her you gotta look hard…_

_And don't call for your surgeon, even he says it's too late _

_It's not your lungs this time, it's your heart that holds your fate…_

_Didn't you think I knew that you were born with the power of a locomotive _

_Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?... _

_And your strength is devastating in the face of all these odds…_

_--Bruce Springsteen, "For You"_

She refuses to go to Atlantic City because gambling is a terrible affliction from which her father suffers, yet she finds no harm in spending the weekend before the fourth of July in a nameless seaside town playing the fake slots in the aptly titled "Fantasy Island." She tells herself that she is winning these gifts for her nieces and nephews—that this isn't her father's problem.

No, she sits at the fifteen-point-ticket slots (not the progressives—she hates the progressive slots), and puts in the requisite three-quarter maximum. She plays the max because she knows that putting in less will result in her kicking herself in the ass when she hits a jackpot with two coins in the damn machine.

She smiles at several children who rush by with bunches of yellow tickets in their hands. The man next to her smiles at them and hands one of them a twenty so they can refill their arsenal of quarters. He shakes his head and puts three more quarters in the machine. He watches her stare at his children.

"What we do for our kids," he comments before she realizes she's staring. She turns away.

"Yeah," she mutters (she doesn't have any kids—what we don't do for our children).

She pushes the lighted buttons and wonders why she's here. She's like House hiding from clinic duty. She's hiding from her responsibility. She's on vacation; she doesn't justify herself to anyone.

"How long have you been playing those slots?" The chatty man next to her asks.

"A while."

"How old are your kids?"

"Fifteen and twelve. They're with their father."

"Oh."

His mouth frowns sympathetically. She wants to laugh at her lies and his fake sympathy (it's good it's fake, since her story is after all a lie. She wouldn't want real sympathy to go to waste on her)

"What's your name?"

"Lisa."

"Joe."

She shakes his hand without taking her eyes off the spinning wheels. The machine is aptly called "Wheels and Deals." When it lands on three of the jackpot icons, her mouth opens.

"I hit the jackpot," she murmurs.

"Can I use that as an excuse to buy you a drink?" Joe asks from next to her.

She glares at him and ushers over one of the teenage boys who work at this arcade.

"Excuse me. I hit the jackpot. I need my winnings."

She stands possessively by the machine while the boy goes to get her her receipt. Joe presses his advantage.

"C'mon. We can celebrate your jackpot," he tells her.

She smiles and leans down. Her face stops in front of his.

"Go screw yourself. And this is the closest view of my breasts you're ever going to get," she hisses.

His smile fades and hers grows. The kid comes back with her check—15,000 points.

"Congratulations," Joe tells her.

"Thanks," she replies and stand up to leave.

When she is almost through the door, Joe shouts to her.

"I own a Rolls!"

She smirks when she turns around to look at him. Sparring practice with House has prepared her for this.

"What are you compensating for?"

The door swings shut behind her.

"I hope his kids heard that," she whispers to the air.

;';

It's one o'clock when the _MASH _marathon ends and she decides it'd be a good idea to go to bed. She can feel the headache growing in the back of her mind and she hits the bed with a thump. She can't remember if the doors are locked or if it even matters. Her spine tingles as she relaxes.

And that's when _they _come. Not the men who want to put her in the asylum or the demons she feared as a child, but the thoughts that permeate her mind before her descent into sleep. They're incoherent and jumbled, never seeming to make sense, but always seeming important.

She doesn't know, but she thinks that sanity's a fine and overrated ideal and that people are all insane. Infirm. Ill. Sick. What we do to one another, she muses. War is just utterly _against_ every bit of common sense humans _should_ have. Rape, murder…this world spins and she carries on because what else can she do? Perhaps that is why she entered medicine. Saving people, not destroying them.

She reminds herself that she was once going to enter law. She interned for a summer with a lawyer and went to trial, but it was a murder case and the key witness was a child. And…

She watched the child's eyes on the stand. The cross examination was relatively soft, but still. A child. She remembers wondering, _Oh, Lord, why do we subject our children to this?_

The answers are varied, but she settles on the conclusion that even our desire to protect our children is not greater than our desire for the truth.

She rolls over to stare at the glowing clock. Her Bose radio plays piano adagios because she accidentally left her CD collection containing Dylan, Henley, and Springsteen sitting on her kitchen counter at home. She could use some of Dylan's easy-going guitar, Henley's loving lyrics, and Springsteen's sultry, scathing voice. She wants the indictments of rock singers not the pardons of dead composers.

"Why can't I get a guy who plays decent guitar?" She murmurs into her pillow.

There's House whose fingers stroke piano keys and heal dying patients. He wouldn't have the patience for a temperamental guitar (and guitars do not live in symbiosis with the minor key). There's Wilson whose delicate hands would never hold up to the abuse of a guitar and its pick (he'd strum out loving harmonies and support, but he could never take the center stage). There's Foreman who's too full of street-cred to play a soulful ballad (there'd be too many angry shouts.) Of course there is Chase, who seems like he could be in a boy-band (she doesn't want boy-band! She wants a real man!)

She can't sleep, so she props her elbows up on her pillows. The windows are open and she can hear moving water. She knows it's the bay because it's closest to the house, but she feels romantic and decides that it's the wind from the ocean carrying the sound of crashing waves to her bedroom window.

She slaps the pillow with a force unbeknownst to her. A siren screams through the night and she's the only one who can hear it. She gets out of bed without a second thought, slips on her pink slippers, and ignores her robe.

By the time she reaches the street, she doesn't remember walking through the house and thinking this was a good idea. She's in her boxer shorts and tank top (she likes to feel young when she sleeps). She starts walking. She doesn't know where and she doesn't particularly know why, but she walks. Because walking is the only thing her body acquiesces to do at the moment.

It's a _shuffle, _then a_ scrape, shuffle, scrape_ that keeps the rhythm and her soul basks in the grittiness of imperfection. Glossed over piano compositions are nice, but nothing compares to Springsteen growling about making love to Crazy Janie on some unknown shore. Or to Dylan shouting melodically _how does it feel_? And of course, there are Henley's lines that echo forever in the head of her, a doctor. _Someone's going to emergency; someone's going to jail._ She settles for the sounds of her slippers on pavement.

She crosses empty streets and travels four blocks in the dark. She climbs the gray-planked stairs and makes her way onto the beach. The moon pulls the waves and gravity's suddenly more than just a necessity. It's beautiful.

Her slippers end up tucked behind the bench and she makes her way down onto the beach. There are waves crashing and seagulls sleeping, but the ocean reminds her she's only mortal.

She plops down on a tract of sand where the waves can just barely lap at her feet. They tease her and beg her, but she refuses to wade into the deep. She's fine being isolated, thank-you-very-much.

There are no stars visible because there are city lights. Humans and their long affair with electricity. She'd rather gaze at God's holy creations.

There's much to think about and she'd rather not do it now. She concedes that she could have any guy she wanted, as evidenced by her encounter with the rich man at Fantasy Island. She has brains, beauty, and a good deal of strength. She wants someone, though, but she doesn't know whom.

She pulls her knees to her chest and clasps her arms around them. It's her safety pose and she searches for a comforting thought. She lands on it relatively quickly.

_This isn't her father's problem_.


	2. Julie Wilson's Lonely Night

**Author's Note:** Cuddy's story at the beach will be spun off. I've started writing some more of that and am working on "STiYSoD" (never fear!) I am going to continue with the women of "House" storyline. There isn't enough good fic out there about all of the female characters.

_He had a home_

_The love of a girl_

_But men get lost sometimes_

_As years unfurl…_

_Lying here in the darkness_

_I hear the sirens wail_

_Somebody's going to emergency_

_Somebody's going to jail…_

_On some solitary rock_

_A desperate lover left his mark,_

_"Baby, I've changed. Please come back."_

--_Don Henley, "New York Minute"_

There's this feeling that I've started to get. It comes when James doesn't talk to me and when we just barely acknowledge one another. It comes when I see James' crestfallen look when he watches our nieces and nephews celebrate holidays. It emerges now, when he doesn't come home—dread's an awfully heavy weight.

He doesn't love me and I understand that. It's surprising that I'm so resigned to my fate, honestly. I'm a fighter.

The clock's digital numbers change with little fan fair. It's two in the morning and he's not home. I can't help but worry that he's lying somewhere in this sweltering heat being beat or killed—but that's not true. He's probably over Greg's house. I've seen him come home smashed one too many times for me to be happy when he tells me that he likes to go over there. It's good for him to have friends—I do. But…I need him some time, too.

I roll over in bed and give a half-hearted, world-weary smile to the adoring fans (well, my alarm clock.) My smile reminds me of a welcome mat that's been trampled on too many times—worn and no longer welcoming. (Maybe that's why James thinks it's time to get a new one.)

As the numbers tick away on the clock, I can't help but resent them. _They _have a purpose. _They _have meaning. _They _are important.

At least James still looks at them with a decent amount of love and tenderness.

In an unimaginable fit of rage, I shout at the imaginary demons in the clock and rip it out of the wall. The wire swirls around and thumps against the side of the bed—a useless snake. Somewhere in the distance a siren wails and I can't help but think of James. But it doesn't matter because _he's not home_.

As I sit on the bed I should be sharing with my husband, I'm left holding out with two hands a dismembered alarm clock. I'd laugh at this scene if I was an outside observer, but it breaks my heart, because _this is my life_. I've pissed the past few years away being someone's wife. It all thunders down on me with a lightning bolt of clarity—_I'm wasting my life_.

It's a terrible observation and my body falls slack. The clock thuds against the unforgiving floor and I thud against the pillow. My body aches, my back breaks—nothing figures anymore.

Ampersands connecting words that are insignificant float through my head. James is kind & caring & loving & sometimes attentive...but he's a cad & a late-worker & sometimes inattentive…

He doesn't know how much this kills me, sitting here, waiting in the dark. The inevitability of moving time (of moving years) creeps up on me, suffocating me. There is no way out, because there is no way of knowing that the solution will be better than the problem. James and I can dance our tragic ballet, but one day the crowds stop coming and the people stop paying…and the curtain falls. What's our final bow? The signatures on the divorce papers?

I can't believe this is what he wants. I just don't…I just don't know. He doesn't come home—what does he think that means to me? Oh, everything's fine. It's not! It's not. It's not all right. It's not okay. Nothing's okay…

The only noise in the room is Don Henley's voice. I'd listen to Bob Dylan like I normally do, but I can't deal with political and social commentaries in the form of song lyrics. No, I need _The End of Innocence_. And_ happily ever after fails and we've been poisoned by these fairy tales_…why does it have to be so true? So painfully true.

My first marriage isn't supposed to end like this! My first marriage isn't supposed to end. In this throwaway culture, aren't we supposed to love each other through sickness and health? Good and bad? I smell the superficiality of bleached blondes and flirting women on James' clothes when I wash them. If he wants fake, he can have fake. But I want real. I am real. I am real.

Sometimes, I have to convince myself I even exist. I go to work and I come home. And I wait. I wait.

There's nothing more for me to do here. Nothing. If James wants to spend his time with his crippled friend and his dying patients, it's all the same to me. But I love him. God do I love him. The smiles, stubborn hair, his mouth as he trails kisses down my stomach…

It's not easy. We'd probably be better off as friends because there can never be two generals in the room. And it's always one of us buckling under the other's demands. I've always been a leader and so has he. We're so competitive. Our marriage is a competition (of whose words sting more, of whose taunts hurt less.)

I'm a bit of a romantic, but I'm not so naïve to think that James would be home every night with flowers. Is it too much of me to ask him to at least come home? I hate going to sleep with a broken alarm clock as my only companion.

This…this undefined marriage would be so much easier if I didn't feel so conflicted about him. If I could possibly be indifferent to him…but numbness isn't an option because I'm a human being and human beings like to feel. But I'm not sure about James. Perhaps he's spent too many nights dulling his pain and feelings with House's Vicodin. Oh, God, if he's indifferent to me…

Then it's all over. All of this—this fractured egg of a marriage, it'll all be over. But I don't want it to end! I've always held on to things I shouldn't…but it's all I have. My job's meaningless, it truly is. All I want is love. Someone to love me and someone to say I'm not crazy for wanting human contact!

I hate being in love. I hate it. It's never done me any good. It makes me weak, dependent, and emotional. Love…

But do James and I even love? Have we ever loved? Maybe he loved me once…maybe. But he doesn't love me anymore. At this point, James and I are puppets being controlled by nothing more than our own expectations.

We shouldn't have gotten married. It was wrong from the start. But we're passionate and annoyingly stubborn people—we get what we want. We always have and we always want to. But I've become so broken…I've let myself break.

If I leave in the morning, James won't have to apologize. He walks in the door night after night and he apologizes and I'm not sure what it means after he does it for the thousandth time. Of course he's sorry for not coming home, but I can't help but think he's sorry for being something else—for what everyone apologies for being—human.

Will James miss me if he finds my bags packed and myself long gone? Or will he shrug his shoulders and move on to the next woman?

So, I'll have to spend my nights from now on watching mind-numbing television. I won't wait again. I won't love again. I won't contemplate changing my name from Wilson again.

I'll simply be numb.


	3. Allison Cameron's Nagging Thoughts

**Author's Note: **Parenthetical asides are for my own fun. One more female and then a bonus chappie. "STiYSoD" is progressing. Promise. Lyrics belong to the genius Bob Dylan.

_Once upon a time you dressed so fine…_

_People called said beware doll, you're bound to fall_

_You thought they were all kidding you…_

_Princess on a steeple and all the pretty people_

_They're all drinking, thinking that they've got it made…_

_When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to loose_

_You're invisible now, you've got not secret to conceal_

_How does it feel, how does it feel?_

_--Bob Dylan, "Like a Rolling Stone"_

You write as the sun leaves Cancer and moves into your birth sign, Leo. You write words of fiery passion and needy love and you can't help but smile when your horoscope tells you that you are 'impetuous.' You're actually quite surprised and relieved (and a tad bit disappointed) that it doesn't say 'crazy.'

All the good guys eat fudge and all the bad boys take drugs. You've never liked fudge and have always avoided drugs—there's no middle ground anymore (but everything's grayer than you think and shades of white and black bleed worse than anything else.)

You like these words on paper because you can manipulate them. It's so much harder to bend spoken words to fit your needs. You slip on a syllable and the whole meaning of the word (sentence) is screwed. Yeah, it's like a lot of things in life (discard your opponent's gin card, call something a date, trip on something you don't see…)

You can't believe you have no idea how to start the letter. You don't know how to start it because nothing is ever appropriate. It's always _House _at work, but God it looks awful written as a supposedly friendly salutation.

But is this just a friendly salutation? You have no idea. You need to write to him

to make sure he knows that it is (but it isn't) his fault. You need to write to him to make sure the team's not hurting. And you need to write to him to make sure he knows you are still enamored with him.

He'll never reciprocate the feelings, you know, as you put down the heavy pen. He might, but he can't ever show it. Even now, when you and he have come to a mutual understanding that you like him, you understand that it's not his style to love. It's not his style. Emotions are your forte and he rather likes obscurity and sarcasm.

You have exactly one word down on paper—'dear'. Oh, yes, dear. Dear, dear, dear. Maybe it's the fact that it's what sweethearts call each other. Maybe it's the fact that it sounds sappy. (Sure you'd love to call him dear endearingly, but right now it just sounds…cloying?)

Once again, you pick up the pen and start to spill expensive ink on the costly stationary. It's mint green lined with pink and it's personalized. Your favorite. (Although you are starting to wonder whether bringing out the fancy equipment is worth it for House. He'll throw it away anyway.)

You stop writing and think about where _he_ could be right now. Perhaps he is in bed or perhaps he is watching television (perhaps he is writing like you are. Ah, too much symmetry and happy coincidence for it to be true.)

Why are you writing this letter? (Damn good question, and you can't answer it. You fail the test.) You really don't know. You think you're playing to your egotism. He'll read this and think of you as more than a "duckling" for a few moments. Maybe he can even confront his feelings…

You snort. Confront his feelings? (Wait, are those pigs flying or are they spots in your eyes from staring at the same piece of paper for so long? Let's go with _B_.) One day maybe he'll change…

Your parents said that about you when you cried over dead spiders (that _you_ killed) and wanted to take home every puppy from the pound (even though _you_ never took care of them.) Things don't change because you still cry over spiders (and humans) that you help kill and still take home every puppy (or broken man) from the pound (even though you never actually care for them).

"How does it feel?" You sing (scream) at the top of your lungs. Let the neighbors call the police. You'll gladly take a citation for one moment of pure frustration—release (courtesy Bob Dylan and his ever-true dismissal to anyone powerful and pretty—yes, you included.)

How does it feel is right. How the hell is this supposed to feel? (More important—what are you going to write in this letter?) Does anybody really know what _this_ (life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness) is supposed to feel like? (Apparently the Founders did—dead old men.)

The song continues and you keep time to Dylan with the tapping of your pen (thank God for rhyming words and social commentary!) And _MASH_ plays in the background. It's the only television show that's ever made you laugh and cry in the same half an hour (humanity at its best and humanity at its worst—saving lives and killing them—medicine and religion—peace and war—dashes that continue to eternity and beyond.)

Shall you write that you love him? Or that you love listening to Don Henley's _Dirty Laundry_ while watching _Network_? Should you question him on what he likes to read? What he likes to do in his spare time? What his childhood was like? What are (were) his dreams? (But it's all stupidity because you could simply ask him to his face—coward.)

Actually, labels are probably too good for you. Doctor, immunologist, widow, schoolgirl, lover, daughter, friend, hard-worker, weak, and the list trudges on (slowly, meandering its way through suggestions and the like.)

This is the time when you wish you had a best friend or a mother to listen to your man problems. But you don't have a girl friend (you were always too pretty and they were always too jealous—oh, the psychoanalyses on them probably didn't help, either.) and you and your mother were never close. So you have to rely on your Leo stubbornness to figure out what you're doing (you know the answer—you're not doing anything.)

You figure now that this bespeaks volumes of foolishness. Writing him a love note (what are you? In fifth grade?) He doesn't even read his own mail (that'd be you. Do you really what to go through this experience _twice_?)

When you fling the pen (God it was expensive!) across the room you realize that maybe this really isn't the best idea (no _shit_). You've done stupider things in your life (marrying your dying husband ring a bell?), but this is one of the more moronic (there's a difference?)

It's the end of the hour. You tear up the paper. It didn't cost _that _much (oh, of course it did…you could've gotten a massage with that money!)

"Oh do shut up!" You scream at your very annoying (but correct) conscience.

The response?

"_You're invisible now, you've got no secrets to conceal. How does it feel?"_


	4. Stacy Warner's Many Introductions

**Author's Note: **Stayed tuned for the bonus chapter: The Boys of "House."

_Keep some sorrow in your hearts and minds_

_For the things that die before their time_

_For the restlessly abandoned homes_

_The tired and weary rambler's bones_

_And stay beside me where I lie _

_--Counting Crows, "Mercury"_

She didn't ever really like the roof until House showed it to her. She found it cold and not at all welcoming. But now, in the middle of summer, it's not cold. But it's still lonely.

"I'm Stacy Warner," she murmurs.

She's married, she's still in love with her former lover, and she's lonely. Not many people would pity her considering she's successful, pretty, and supposedly happy. Not many people like her. She knows that. She understands.

She has few friends. She's intimidating. She overachieves, she loves too much, she does everything better than she should.

She sometimes wonders where she would be if she stayed with House. She broke up with him because he was a Vicodin-addicted man with a tendency for cutting sarcasm that _did_ cut her. That _did_ hurt her. He might not have meant those words, but how many times did he say them? Hundreds. After the fiftieth time of telling herself that he didn't mean them, that they were the product of the drugs, it got old. Really old. And she stopped coming home at night, preferring to spend time with the nice, tame computers and constitutional laws instead of his uncontrollable mouth.

She left him. She didn't have a choice.

"My name is Stacy Warner and I am not going to regret leaving Greg House."

She says it with enough confidence and bombast that she believes it. She loved him once (maybe still does), but she's married. The past is written in black ink and there is no such thing as White-Out for the annals of history.

She wishes there was, actually. If she could erase all her memories of him, she could go on living her life with Mark quite nicely. But there are times when the thought creeps up on her—_if she were with House, where would she be now?_

It's never pleasant, she'll admit, to think about "could have been" and "should have been". But he had a leg infarction. He got a cane, Vicodin; he didn't need her. He adamantly refused to keep her as another crutch. She's never been good with being unwanted.

"Hi, I'm Stacy Warner. Mark's my husband."

What else was she supposed to do? Let him die? How could she do that? He walks with a cane, but that's better than walking around with a prosthetic leg. He'd be so much more miserable.

"Stacy Warner. Forty-three. Constitutional lawyer."

Maybe she should have let him die. Maybe that's what he wanted. What was she supposed to do? He knows she's a human being and he, in all his great adventures into the human psyche knows that humans are selfish. She couldn't let him go.

And that was their undoing from the start.

"This is Stacy Warner here. I graduated first in my class from Harvard Law."

The hot chocolate doesn't have enough milk in it, so it's too hot. It's July, but she loves drinking hot chocolate at all times of the year. Everyone she knows chides her being ungodly weird at times.

Sirens make merry music in the drifting night air. It is hot, she'll concede. But it's so much better than the winter. It's too cold in the winter. She doesn't mind drinking hot cocoa in the summer when it's hot, but she absolutely detests drinking it in the winter when she's supposed to. Rules, regulations, and expectations have always cut her deeper than she'd like to admit. She rebels in small ways—

_Drinking hot chocolate in the summer. Abusing her medical proxy title_.

She takes a sip. She thinks about him, and when she does think about him the smallest things trigger the thoughts. It's in the mall and she sees the Foot Locker store—_he used to wear those shoes_. She's at breakfast. _He likes his eggs sunny side up. _She's in the bookstore._ He has a soft spot for bodice rippers_. She's drinking hot chocolate in the summer—_he teases her for liking hot drinks on hot days_.

"My name's Stacy House. Yes, I believe in soul mates."

She hopes he finds happiness with that attractive, young doctor. Allison Cameron's a pretty, all-American name. As much as he won't admit it, he needs someone who can deal with him. Cameron looks at him with a mix of adoration and consternation—but she seems like she'll care for him—good or bad.

"Hi, I'm Stacy. You want fries with that?"

Stacy imagines things flying through the night air. She doesn't usually indulge herself in this particular fun, but she pretends she can see fairies and magic things all leaping around through the air. When she was growing up, she remembers watching the fireflies. There aren't any fireflies here. But even here in the city she can still hear the crickets of her youth chirping.

"I'm Stacy. How are you?"

She finishes her hot chocolate and pulls out of her pocket her trusty pack of Trident bubblegum. It's the only thing she ever chews and she chews it religiously when she is in private. She has a passion for blowing impossibly big bubbles. She's loved this gum for as long as she can remember. Her family and friends think she's quite odd not only for drinking hot cocoa in the summer but also for chewing three pieces of gum at a time. She's always been able to shrug it off as an eccentric quality.

But House'll bring it up every now and then, and it'll pain her. Mark tolerates her irritating bubblegum habit, but House calls her out on it. She's always missed a fleeting childhood; House knows this and let's her know he knows.

"May I please the court? My name is Stacy Warner and this is my co-counsel…"

Why? It's always bothered her that he knows everything about her. But she did live with him. They did (and still do) love one another. But no one should know her better than she does. He does, though. He knows her intricacies better than she does…

That's why she prances about the hospital with this "been-there-done-that" air. It's her cover. If she let's House find out that she's weak and she doesn't have the upper hand, he'll play her to his advantage. He'll take advantage of her muddled feelings. He'll make her question herself. She's afraid. But, she knows she'll have the upper hand for a few more weeks. She'll be able to get herself up and into a confident position…

Who's she kidding? Herself? She won't be here for a few more weeks. It's like in those old Westerns. _This town ain't big enough for the both of us._

Well, he's no John Wayne and she's no Ann-Margaret. He and she are just two people—circling, avoiding, and hoping never to actually speak their feelings.

If they do, she fears, then there will be nothing left of either of them.

"Hello. I'm Stacy Warner. Pleased to meet you."


	5. The Boys

**Author's Note: **So, where were the boys during the time the women were busy being all angsty and emo? Why, attempting to play poker of course! (Let the sarcasm run wild…both the author's and the guys'.) Oh, I'm not trying to insult anyone. It's all in good fun (and I think everyone gets picked on equally.)

_Angels never come for free_

_If you know what I know you know what I mean_

_You can love 'em now - you can love 'em later_

_Girlfriends never fall for fun_

_They can tie you up make you come undone_

_You can learn to fly - But you can't create her_

_--Five for Fighting, "Angels and Girlfriends"_

The room should be dark. Logic tells one that _if_ Lisa Cuddy is on vacation in Long Beach Island _then_ her office should be dark. Especially at 12 a.m. in the morning (night, midnight, _whatever_). But it's not. It's actually quite bright. Lots of lights and such. Oh, and there is one Dr. House sitting smugly behind his boss' desk (oh, and there's Dr. Foreman sitting on the couch—but no one ever cares about Dr. Foreman. He's kind of like the invisible man. Or that guy who always dies in _Galaxy Quest_. Sort of nonessential to the story). Good thing Cuddy'll be on vacation for a week.

House sits quietly. He seems to be waiting for someone. Something. (Hookers, prostitutes, dinner…who knows? Who cares?) He's got this shit-eating grin on his face. Cuddy would have slapped it off, Stacy would have rolled her eyes, and Cameron would have kissed him. But, they're not here. They're all miserable. So, it's no surprise when there's a crisp knock on the door. Three raps.

"Password," House barks.

"Vasculitis," the blonde-haired man tells him.

"Enter," House replies from behind steepled fingers.

"God, couldn't we have had a more interesting password?" Chase inquires.

"No. We're doctors. We're intentionally boring."

Chase rolls his eyes.

"What'd you bring?" Foreman questions from his corner.

"I didn't think you were invited," Chase says as he throws a look in Foreman's direction.

"We have equal-opportunity poker playing here, Dr. Chase. Do not tease Eric," House instructs.

"Well, I brought the beer," Chase tells the assembled as he holds up two six-packs of Budweiser, King of Beers and man's best friend (dogs are second—never separate a man from his beer.)

"You brought two six-packs. Six plus six equals twelve. They'll be four of us. We only get three beers a piece," Foreman points out (well, one of them probably has to be a designated driver, so it'll be four for three of them. Oh, never mind. They don't seem to mind spending ALL THEIR FREE TIME in the hospital. Sleeping there's not a biggie.)

"Yeah, so?" Chase asks.

"Foreman's just trying to point out that three beers is not a whole heck of a lot. But that's Foreman. I'm okay with three beers. I know where Cuddy keeps the good stuff," House raises his eyebrows.

(Please note: If House had done his homework and knew about Chase's mother's drinking problem, he would have known that Chase shies away from getting near alcohol. Thus, he would have assigned Foreman to get the beer. Well, maybe not.)

"How good of stuff?" Foreman asks.

"Like '95 Dom Perignon."

"She keeps champagne in her office!" Chase and Foreman exclaim together (aw, they're so cute when they do stuff in unison. Almost like a bad '90s boy-band that embraces diversity. Almost.)

"Yeah, sure. She likes to celebrate stuff. Like when I get my ass out of a lawsuit."

"Frankly, I'm surprised we don't get more of those around her," Foreman points out.

"Well, I think my charm, your good hands, and Chase's good looks are enough to keep us out of the courthouse. Although, I wouldn't mind being represented more often by our lovely counsel," House licks his lips (which is actually not as sexy a gesture as one might think. It's kind of just him having chapped lips and needing Chapstick. But, c'mon. Do real men actually use Chapstick?)

Before any of them can make some remark about Stacy (see chapter four), three knocks sound on the door (three knocks because the number three's pretty. Really cute and fuzzy.)

"Password," all of them bark (aw, they're almost as cute as the Beach Boys when they revolutionized harmonization. Almost.)

"Vasculitis," a voice comes through the door.

"Enter," House tells it.

Wilson comes in and he's only accompanied by a plastic bag that reads "Wal-Mart" (He shops! Oh em gee! He shops!)

House turns a withering eye on the bag.

"_Jimmy_, you're only job was to bring the hookers. God, was it that hard?"

Wilson smiles back at him.

"No. I just charged them to your credit card. But they got lost when I told them you were a cripple, I was married, and these two—" he points to Chase and Foreman, "were pretty and an ex-con. They bailed on me."

"I'm not an ex-con!" Foreman mutters in indignation.

"Well, you were the only one charged with anything bad. You give us our gangster-by-association cred," House informs him.

"And pretty? I am not pretty!" Chase whines with his lovely Australian accent.

"You are pretty. I am smoldering. Wilson is nice. Foreman is bad. End of story," House looks at the beer. "Hand me one of those."

"Considering you just insulted all of us, I'm not really sure any of us are gonna let you drink the beer," Foreman tells him (see, that sneaky Dr. Foreman, trying to weasel his way into more beer.)

"You are here on the good graces of my lock-picking skills, 'kay? So let's not argue with the cripple," House replies petulantly and grabs himself a beer.

"Excuse me, but _I_ got us in here. Chase brought the beer. Wilson got—wait, what'd you get?"

"Porn," he holds up the indiscreet bag (oh, so he doesn't shop. Damn it…he was _almost_ the perfect man).

"Okay, he got porn. House, what did you bring?"

House purses his lips and rolls his eyes.

"This whole thing was my idea."

"Glad to know I can tell Cuddy that when she finds her office trashed," Wilson smirks.

"Cuddy's in Long Beach Island. She's—I don't want to know what she's doing. Mind your own woman. Where's she?" House inquires. Wilson squirms.

"I don't know—home?" He shrugs.

"Yeah, and speaking of women, where's Cameron?" Foreman frowns.

"Mourning over the sun setting. Who cares?" Chase snaps.

"Aw, Chasey's got a crush on our darling Cameron," House sneers.

"How's Stacy? Still married?" Chase retorts.

"Last time I checked."

"Can we stop discussing women? I thought we were playing poker," Wilson mutters.

"You're not playing for the other team are you, Jimmy? All those sly looks in my direction—I know I'm irresistible to women, but you too?"

Chase snorts, Wilson sighs, and Foreman rolls his eyes.

"Why do women want to lay _him_?" Chase asks.

"Who wouldn't want to lay a man who compares himself to Mick Jagger?" Foreman laughs.

"And the cane! Oh, they love the things he does with his cane," Wilson chuckles.

"No, you boys have it wrong," House smirks and applies a little trick he calls self-deprecation to deflect all the attempts at humiliation.

"They want to sleep with me because I have the drugs," he wiggles his eyebrows and shakes his Vicodin bottle.

They all laugh (or do their best impersonations), but somber quickly, because, as doctors, they are accustomed to celebrations not lasting long. (Alright, two poetic paragraphs—back to the snarking.)

"So, who brought the cards?" Wilson's voice asks through the laughter.

They all look pointedly at House. He throws up his hands.

"Not me. I only got rid of the women."

"Someone, check the dumpster. Maybe Cuddy's not in LBI," Wilson suggests.

"Do you really think he'd go through all that trouble? I'd say check the freezer," Chase drawls.

"Hello? It's Dr. House. I'm _in _the room," he reminds them like a child. Foreman raises his eyebrows.

"_You_ forgot the cards. Anybody else have any on them?"

"Yeah, I carry them in my purse. No, I don't have any on me," Wilson replies.

"Don't look here," Chase throws up his hands.

But they don't look at Chase. They all look at House.

"Fine, I forgot to tell Cameron to get me a pack. My fault," he holds up his hands in a peace offering (it'd be really cool if House procured a pipe from his pocket, smoked it and called it a "peace" pipe, just so they could piss off another ethnic group. Really, they haven't gotten to Native Americans yet? How can you put in a dominatrix before you put in the Native Americans!)

"_Your_ fault? Did you just admit that you made a mistake?" Wilson smiles and points at House (he doesn't know why he's pointing to House, it just makes it seem cool, like, "gotcha!" wasn't available.)

"You make a mistake. Then it haunts you forever. What are we going to do without cards?" House whines (because he whines so sexily. Actually him _breathing_ is sexy at this point.)

"Yeah, and only three beers a pop," Foreman also whines (because he also has a sexy whine, even if he is bent on ignoring the fact that one of them needs to be a designated driver. God, don't they read the little warnings at the bottom of the beer ads?)

"That was not my fault. I couldn't carry more than that!" Chase whines (because we're all for equal-opportunity whining!)

Silence drapes the room like some old lady's really ugly slipcover. House tinkers with the paraphernalia on Cuddy's desk. Wilson ties his shoes. Chase opens a beer (hey, at this point, _someone _should be drinking.) Foreman folds his arms (and wonders why the party circuit out in LA is much better than this.)

"Would somebody come up with something interesting to talk about, please?" House asks (should be begs, but House so doesn't beg.)

"It's been so hot this summer," Wilson mutters (he read it once in a book on how to get friends that the best topic of conversation is the weather. _Everyone _has an opinion on the weather. Usually that opinion is that the weather sucks. Because the weather usually sucks. And because humans are never happy with what they have.)

"Yeah, it'd be winter in Australia by now," Chase muses.

"Huh," Foreman agrees (to what? No one knows. But no one understands what these people talk about half of the time anyway—sort of like the early days of _The West Wing_ when Aaron Sorkin was still writing. Oh, Aaron Sorkin, Aaron Sorkin…)

"I like hot weather. Makes people stay indoors. With air-conditioning. Means most of our cases are environmental and airborne. Ah, summertime," House reclines in Cuddy's chair.

"We should prank-call Cuddy," House says before Wilson can open his mouth and make a comment on summer (he started the conversation and still doesn't get to put his two-cents in!).

"No," Wilson vetoes the idea.

"I know I have her number somewhere," House puts down his feet and starts rummaging in Cuddy's top desk drawer (Cuddy isn't as paranoid as House, so she doesn't find a reason to lock any of the drawers other then The Very Important Top Secret One that everyone has in their desk.)

"Leave her alone. Don't you think she deals with you enough?" Wilson argues (Foreman and Chase are oddly silent—but then again, we don't really see them interact much with Cuddy, so they don't really care. Plus, there's beer!)

"How can anyone ever tire of me?" House bats his eyelashes in an attempt to look innocent.

Foreman, Chase, and Wilson just stare at him.

"What?" House feels around on his face to make sure he doesn't have a major zit somewhere (because he's vain. Really vain.)

They continue to stare. Foreman takes a swig of beer. (So we've narrowed down our designated driver to Dr. Wilson.)

"Alright, fine," he grabs his Vicodin and swallows about three.

"So, who's up for a game of spin the cane?"

END


End file.
